


come up and see me, make me smile

by Siera_Writes



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Height Kink, M/M, Smut, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:46:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6520324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy arrives at the Rum Runner, not wholly knowing what to expect. Birmingham is a thrumming sprawl, like London but with the grime of northern industry still oozing through its streets and suburbs. He guessed the club would've been similar, a mirror of the city - dressed up, yet robust, dark and pub-like - but he's dead wrong. It's decadent in its sleazy glamour, sparkling in its finery, dark woods of the fixtures adding an almost baroque depth. He's there before opening hours, and some staff members are milling around, setting up for the evening.</p><p>His guitar is a comfortable weight across his back, heavy, solid, reliable. The strap of its case is becoming threadbare, the fibres fraying where the wear of the last few years on the road have taken their toll. He shifts on his feet, stuffs his hands in his pockets, tries to affect a nonchalance, as though he knows exactly what he's doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come up and see me, make me smile

**Author's Note:**

> Though this technically contains underage sex, all parties are consenting, and there is no manipulation or coercion. Age gaps are as they would have been back then.
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes, this is unbataed.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at delta-traces.
> 
> With that out of the way, enjoy.

Andy arrives at the Rum Runner, not wholly knowing what to expect. Birmingham is a thrumming sprawl, like London but with the grime of northern industry still oozing through its streets and suburbs. He guessed the club would've been similar, a mirror of the city - dressed up, yet robust, dark and pub-like - but he's dead wrong. It's decadent in its sleazy glamour, sparkling in its finery, dark woods of the fixtures adding an almost baroque depth. He's there before opening hours, and some staff members are milling around, setting up for the evening.

His guitar is a comfortable weight across his back, heavy, solid, reliable. The strap of its case is becoming threadbare, the fibres fraying where the wear of the last few years on the road have taken their toll. He shifts on his feet, stuffs his hands in his pockets, tries to affect a nonchalance, as though he knows exactly what he's doing.

He doesn't.

There's an aura of sophistication where there shouldn't possibly be one. Elegance too. He plays rock, and he plays it well. This is not a place he belongs. His worries aren't assuaged by passing workers - even they are dressed finely, and he feels self-conscious in his jeans and ratty tee shirt. He almost wants to turn on his heel, stride out into the city outside, take a good long gulp of the dirty air, and walk away. The sun's setting, and the golden rays of light would be tarnished orange by the heavy haze of particulates which hunker in a layer, low over the city, always.

He hears muffled, rowdy laughter and jolts from his romanticised reverie, admitting ruefully that if he were to leave, he'd return to the same routine he's had for the last few years. There's a lethargy to it, now. He wants something new. 

There's a small ruckus coming from a back room: the source of the laughter. Three men - boys, really, they're all around his age - stumble from the room, snickering. They spend a couple of moments more wrapped in the ignorance of their experience until one - finely built, hair absurd, eyes smokey with a hell of a lot of makeup, notes his presence near the door.

The boy's eyes narrow, suspicion - and not a little reproach - evident in his expression. Andy bristles. The other two are looking over him as well. One is around the same height as the first boy, but his tee shirt's cut-off sleeves reveal a heavier build, one he recognises from drummers he's played with. Instead of a cool glare, he receives a thoughtful one, a nod of greeting. He returns it, and looks over to the last boy. 

He's tall: enviably so. Or at least, Andy envies it. He's relatively skinny, in a lithe way. The singer? No, he's been told the singer's sick, though Andy's none too sure he believes this. Anyway, the tallest has the looks of a singer. Handsome in a pretty way. Andy squints, realising all three of them are. So that's the type of band this is. He scoffs to himself, tosses his head to shift his fringe from his face, feeling a bubble of exasperation in his chest. Of course.

He's itching for a cigarette, fidgets his hands. His lighter rests heavy in his pocket. The group gesture for him to approach them, and he does, hardwearing boots making audibly loud impacts with each step he takes over the smooth, wooden boards of the dance-floor.

The first boy holds out his hand with an imperiousness that riles Andy. He meets it, and they shake, and Andy can feel a mutual repulsion between them - neither can wait to release the other's grip. "I'm Nick." The Brummie drawl is thick in his surprisingly low voice, reminding him of molasses; it's dark with barely hidden dry humour, slow, and considering. 

"Andy." He feels his northern accent making him stand out, already, and he hasn't heard either of the other two speak.

Nick turns slightly, gestures to the suspected drummer. "This is Roger - say hello, Rog." 

"Hi." Roger smiles small and genuine, and Andy feels himself relax. If there's even just one person he can actually get on with, then this whole thing - whatever it turns out to be - should at least be bearable.

Andy's attention is reeled back by Nick's voice, the lilt of it having changed. "And this, is John." Nick's smiling at John shyly, like he's the sun and the moon and the stars, a distinct contrast to the man's slouching frame and burgundy hair falling dark across his forehead, shading his eyes, and Christ, all Andy wanted was a new band, uncomplicated. It's not like he doesn't understand - far from it; the human form is an innately beautiful one, and for all his punk leanings, Andy loves beauty - it's just that favourites and politics, when mixed with friendships and a passion for music that burns brighter than the feeling between members, tends to bring ruin to relationships.

John leans forward a tiny amount, still towering, reaches for his hand and shakes it once, definitely. His hand is heavy knuckled and elegant, and Andy can see and feel calluses from playing. Another guitarist? Or maybe John's just not good enough. The boy must feel the scrutiny of his gaze, and parses it well. "Bassist." The smile which accompanies the word spreads slowly across his lips and quirks at the corner, breaks the moody demeanour which had hovered around him.

Andy grins back, and feels the room seem to exhale, mirrored walls receding and lights brightening. Through unspoken agreement, they move to the back room that the three of them had exited, earlier, and within there's ample space to practise. Thick wires knot across the floor, sketching nonsensical imagery in languid, loose forms. Andy hefts his case from his shoulder, smiling at the freedom he sees here, and quickly extricates his guitar, wires seeming to sing to him from beneath his fingers when he catches them and they vibrate.

He stoops quickly to grasp a lead, plugs in his guitar, hearing the fuzzy hum of the amp, watching as the others get themselves ready. Likewise, they observe him, eyes owlish, curious. John is watching his hands for the chords, the strumming and picking, Roger for rhythm and flow, and Nick is watching to understand him, to decode his personality through the music he plays. Two different approaches - John and Roger with technical appraisal in mind, and Nick, his character.

Andy shifts his stance, readying his left hand around the neck and holding his right poised above the body. He takes a breath, head tilted downwards, his hair hanging past his face, shrouding his view of the room, of them. He plays. It's a curious melody, one which swells and weaves through chords and tonality. He's showing off - knows he is - playing barre chords, sliding up and down the fretboard like he can sing through the strings. He alternates between strumming multiple, and plucking single, strings, riding the tide of the music, letting his hand divine its own motions, drawing from the ether. Freedom, that's what this tastes like.

There's the treble hiss of a cymbal, and he looks up, still caught in the moment, meets Rogers eyes and watches with euphoria deep in his chest. Roger establishes a rhythm, and it's intricate, not standalone and stubborn, but one which flows with his playing. They're jamming. They're fucking jamming and it's amazing. There's movement in the corner of his eye; John's moving over, eyes molten and alight with a dark joy. Even with his stooping posture, he towers over Andy, even more so with them like this, Andy bowed over his guitar. There's a couple more seconds before the bass kicks in, and John's stood close behind, and slightly to his right, leaning over his shoulder just barely in order to watch the flit of his hand for the shapes of the chords. 

When he does start playing, Andy's surprised at the sound. It's low, and rich, but agile and staccato, jumping and grooving like disco. And somehow, it all works, locks together like a puzzle they didn't know they needed to solve. Over the top of it, Nick begins a quiet layer of synth, sweeping over the top and adding a surprising broadness to the sound. He likes it: fucking loves it, actually. The music moves to a crescendo, then breaks, and they laugh, grins wide and toothy, feedback squealing slightly in the aftermath. Even Nick looks happy, his glacial aura thoroughly thawed.

There's a polite clearing of a throat from the doorway, and they all turn, caught unawares. Two men are hovering on the threshold of the room, seeming to look askance at Nick, shooting a couple of glances at John, who, by virtue of how he was shadowing Andy earlier, is now stood close to his front and left, almost wholly blocking him from their sight.

Nick trots from the room to begin conversing with the men in hushed tones, intonation quick but level. No argument, just a discussion with questions asked and answers given easily. John runs a hand though his hair while glancing back over his shoulder at Andy, and his face is left more open, smile seeming vaguely apologetic. He ducks his head, explaining in a faux-conspicuous manner who they are. Andy nods all the while, filing as much information away as he can, for his consideration. He needs to weigh out his choices with a clear head, with the rush he gets from playing thoroughly out of his system.

The two men - the Berrows, as Andy now knows them to be - move to approach him, Nick wandering behind him to the others, and he warily shakes their hands, affecting a bland openness. They're the managers of the Rum Runner, with no basis in music other than running the club, and call him judgemental but anyone with an interest in making music who's not involved in the playing is only there to make money. He doesn't want to become a springboard for someone else's fame.

After a couple of minutes of talking at him, they leave, and he senses rather than sees the approach of the three boys. They're quiet, the three of them caught in their own easy orbit, and somehow, even with his apparent immediate dislike of Nick, he feels settled, comfortable. They all love their music with a genuine passion that shines through, and besides, Nick seems younger than the other two. Maybe that's all it is. A territorial urge to protect what he's making. He'll see in due course that they all want the same thing. Hang on. He's getting ahead of himself.

Andy turns to face them, feeling choked - and that's wrong, he's known them for barely any time, an hour, maybe two - but music to him is more eloquent than any other communication, or more honest at least, and he feels like he's home. But there's the very distinct possibility that this is the last time he'll see these three rather stunning people, so very alive in their naïvety.

He bundles away his guitar lovingly, then moves to a stand.

He nods at them once, a sharp jerk of the head, emotion making robotic the motion. He clamps down, pushes the feelings to the back of his mind (failing, he's failing), and holds out his hand. After a second or two, they shake, and there's a finality to it. He's never shaken as many hands in his life, let alone as he has today. He tries to smile cheekily, and is sure it's more a grimace, but he pushes on, turning on his heels while hefting his guitar back across his back. "'aight, lads." He casts it over his shoulder, raising a hand, and into the growing cacophony of the Rum Runner.

People are moving in, a bustle flowing in. They're dressed ornate and bright, not one person the same. It's unusual when someone isn't wearing makeup. He cleaves through the crowd, feeling the motions of the dancing, continuing forward. He's mentally planning his route, working through his journey here, and calculating when he'll arrive back home on the train. It'll be a push to make it to the station, but if he runs, he'll catch the train no problem.

He thinks he hears his name, but in the snippets of conversation his mind is parsing as he passes through, he's not surprised that he might mistakenly hear syllables which resemble his name. He keeps going, a buzz in the back of his mind calling for him to take out a cigarette so he can inhale smoke and tar and relax, just a bit. 

It's even darker outside, night fully descended, and a queue of equally outlandishly dressed people lingers, awaiting entry to the club. He can feel the once-overs, some looks of distaste, others of idle curiosity. He's not dressed the part, that's for sure. He stops just to take a long inhale of the city air, crisp and cold to the back of his nose, and throat: he feels the tickling urge to sneeze. In his pocket, the cigarette box is well-thumbed and wrinkled, and he pulls it out along with a battered lighter, its case burnished metal, lined with scratches from keys and other detritus commonly found in his pockets. 

He's about to take a long drag when a heavy hand settles on his shoulder. Andy wheels, preparing to launch a blow or push the person away from him, but it's Roger, earnest of face, dark eyes wide, pleading, and slightly breathless, as though he'd sprinted after him and pushed through the crowd to reach him. Which he must have done. Andy quirks a brow in confusion, at a loss as to what's happening. He relaxes immediately, trusting the other boy.

"Look, we know you've got a bit of a journey ahead of you, and it's late." Andy squints at Roger, then follows where he points as he indicates over his shoulder with his thumb. John and Nick are wresting through the edge of the crowd, emerging from the high shadows and vibrant lights. They come to a stop beside Roger, looking equally as open and Roger.

To Andy's surprise, Nick offers up further information. "We've got a place, if you want to stay there - this evening, at least. It'll make it easier. I mean, you've got a bit of a way to go to bet back, and it's late. There anyone you need to call?" The three of them scrutinise him intently, awaiting his reply.

He should feel irritated, their offer stifling and belittling, but for one evening, it would be nice not to be traveling; for one evening, it would be nice to have an excuse to stay. He shifts on his feet, cold air beginning to cut through his light clothes. He's certain that had it been anyone else, he would've said no. There's an easy camaraderie, here. One that scares him a little.

It's inevitable.

"I'll stay."

\---

It's a brisk walk through town, shadows between streetlamps heavy on the pavements. The night sky, usually dark like ink, is made a murky orange by light pollution. He can barely see the stars, and the moon is a characterless disk, yellowed. Cars skulk past, low on the road, and they're lit from the side by neon lights, exotic.

Nick, having been leading their troupe with John beside him, ducks into a shadowed alleyway between two run-down townhouses, and towards a doorway recessed into the wall of one, rummaging in his pocket for keys. John stands close behind the shorter boy, glancing warily into the deeper dark beyond, broached not by the already-weak roadside illumination. The way the light falls paints a stark divide onto the pavement, lit, and unlit. Andy stops there, on the threshold, uncertain, and Roger seems to be able to read his silence well. 

"Look, man. You don't need to stay if you don't want to." He breaks to pull his cigarette from between his lips, the end glowing as he gestures expansively behind him with his arm crossing into the dark, towards the other two, who at this point are only a vague indication of the human form: where their clothes and hands and hair are highlighted by occasional passing car headlights. "But you're the best guitarist we've had come to us. It'd be a shame to lose you." Roger shrugs, smiles lightly, brings the cigarette back to his lips and takes a long drag, smoke coiling when he exhales lengthily. The air is laced with a lazy wind, and it snatches at the haze when it rises just above his head.

The lock clunks, a low, dull sound, and Nick and John work to shoulder the door open, turning with no little confusion to Andy's lurking under the sodium light of a streetlamp, then noting Roger on the border between the light and the dark. He can see their eyes: bright and wide, a tinge of fear. He doesn't know whether to feel flattered or guilty; that they're banking so much - their futures - on him remaining. 

His stomach lurches at the realisation (it's all too fast, this is way too fast), and a giddiness gathers in his limbs, galvanises him to step forward, past Roger, who's face is cast in shadow and displays a small smile. The darkness closes around him, scene suddenly transitioning from the city's typical yellow cast to greyscale. He waits expectantly for them to head into the building. John casts a critical eye over him, and he knows the drummer is close behind. He couldn't leave now if he tried, though he believes they would make no move to stop him. He hears the grind of a shoe on flagstones, the crush of a cigarette. Acrid smoke rises to his nostrils and his eyes water.

The hallway is narrow, the staircase beyond a tight coil. There's a grunt from behind him as John forces the door to shut tight, and Nick locks it. They both chuckle lightly, but the sound peters away. The aura of the house explains enough to Andy. He can feel he doesn't belong. At least, not yet. He grimaces at the treacherous desire to settle with them immediately. They're just so bright and optimistic and not at all jaded. It's an intoxicating presence, nothing like the musicians and groups he's worked with.

He waits, awkwardly, for someone to explain quite where he needs to go. The strap of his guitar case is beginning to cut into the curve of his shoulder, and he rotates his arm and jostles the joint, uncomfortable. The movement shocks the three of them into blustering explanations, and frantic rushes to accommodate him, their voices stopping and starting like interference patterns as they look between themselves. Nick flicks on the lamp sat on a small cardboard box, and the ruddy light illuminates them all from below, cheekbones thrown into high relief, eyes smudged deep, even darker than by their makeup, through shadow. They look like some sort of classical painting, maybe an observation of the play of light and dark by some old master. They have a suitably ethereal look to them, now, and their unusual manner clothing only compounds the effect.

John strides off past them, presumably to their kitchen, proclaiming he'll make tea, and his heavy boots thud on the old wooden floorboards. Andy notes the other pair's eyes; how they seem remarkably fixed on the retreating figure, Roger's dark eyes serious, and Nick's glittering with a hint of a mischievous smile which his lips show only a hint of. Andy feels even less certain of what he's doing here, what he wants to be doing. Is this just about finding a new sound, and something that challenges him anew, or is it something else...

He'd be lying terribly to himself if he said it were only about the music. The worst thing is, he doesn't actually know quite what this other motivation is.

Nick guides Andy into a cramped room branching from the claustrophobic corridor, with a threadbare sofa, and small television set with a screen dwarfed by its casing. The window is bordered by light curtains, and Andy knows the sunlight'll be a bitch in the morning. He can see the road outside, the streetlamps providing more than enough illumination for him to observe the space. He steps slowly into the room, appraising, takes in the peeling wallpaper in the corner, the thin rug with a surprisingly decent coffee table placed squarely in the middle of it. The house is make do, obviously, but they're trying.

Andy sets his guitar down, gently, stretches and yawns, as the other boy crosses the room to draw the curtains. He's tired now, coming down from the high of performing, and the continual alertness that traveling requires; his eyes feel gritty and burn a little when he blinks. 

"Come with me." Nick lingers in the doorway, his whole front cast dark by the backlighting. Andy can barely read his expression, but his body language is open - the earlier aloofness, while still evident, seems not reduced, but more personable. He takes this as a good sign: if he's here for the long-run, a clash of egos would be best avoided. He acquiesces to the soft Brummie drawl, its sound modulated low in the relative quiet. Leaving the room, he can hear the rise and fall of two voices in conversation, their cadences distinct. So that's where Roger got to - making tea with John, it seems.

Their passage across the floorboards is thudding, again, their boots similar in weight and style to John's. Upon nearing the shabby white-painted door to the kitchen, lying ajar, Nick's steps seem to slow, a tentativeness entering which Andy finds odd of such an assured young man. He receives a slantwise look, one which makes Andy frown slightly in confusion, until he realises it's an unconscious glance. In fact, Nick seems a little worried. Andy cocks his head, noting a lull in the conversation which had been emanating through the doorway like the sound of a stream over rocks: only missed in its absence from the scene. And then it starts again, and Nick completes the last few steps, shoulders in front of Andy, and coughs, walking through the doorway. When Andy enters, both Roger and John are standing close, next to a small hob. John is decidedly focused on whatever he's pushing around the pan - bacon? It smells like bacon - his hair falling in his face, and Roger's gaze is averted to the ground while he leans against the counter beside the hob, toeing the grey line of mortar between the tiles with his boot.

Andy squints at them, watches their conversation continuing low and somewhat stilted. There's an air of awkwardness which unsettles him, but it seems to pass quickly as Nick begins chatting with them. He lingers by the door, taking in the room. It's small, like the rest of the house, and quite bare: the walls are manilla, the lampshade a paper one, and there's a small table with three matching chairs and a single disparate seat. A small window sits oddly high in the wall above the sink, but with the time of day - late evening, really - it's black as pitch, the main light reflected in it. As far as things go, Andy's impressed at the relative neatness of their home - for two twenty-somethings and one teenager, it's quite impressive. Somehow, he gets the impression they don't spend that much time here...

With a clatter, John finishes cooking, carefully decants slices of bacon onto rounds of bread resting on mismatched plates. He and Roger carry them over, carefully. Once they sit down to eat, Andy suddenly realises how hungry he is; in the fuss of it all, his mind had been flying a bit above his more base instincts. The first bite into the bacon butty is glorious. It's hot and greasy in his mouth, a comforting warmth, and the tomato sauce offers a zingy sweetness which compliments the smoky, slightly burnt edge wonderfully.

They're quiet, the only sounds that can be heard the occasional clatter of a knife, the hollow knock of a glass being lowered back to the table. They finish quickly, the combination of a long day and the late hour compounding to make them ravenous. Andy sits back with a small, satisfied sigh, which prompts the three to look at him, and then between themselves, seeming proud to have managed to create some sort of normality for him, if he's able to judge anything from their smiles. Each looks smug, to varying degrees. Andy finds that he doesn't actually mind, grinning a little himself. It's been a while since he's felt this relaxed, which is surprising, given he usually keeps his cards close to his chest around new people. And yet, look at him. If it were anyone else that he knew, and he saw them acting and feeling like he is now, he'd deride them for being naïve.

Fuck. Looks like his relocating to Birmingham is a given.

Even then, what about money? There's been no talk of it, and without a singer - as he suspects they are - there's no way to start earning. He doesn't think instrumental stuff'll take off so well. The thought's jarring, sobers him from his good mood like he's been doused in lake water; in a single cold flush, his good mood is washed from his frame.

"Hey, mate, you alright?" A hand falls to rest lightly on his upper arm, accompanying the words, and Andy looks up from where he was unconsciously chewing at his nail to see John looking at him with slight concern. Those dark eyes hold him, and Andy feels he must be staring gormlessly back, unable to respond to the piercing stare. He's not used to this - his bands have always had a protectiveness between the members, but more a strength in numbers vibe than anything else - and the feeling that they genuinely want to friends with him (already?) is stunning. He just nods back, unsure what else to do. And then the warm pressure on his deltoid is gone, John is gone, standing up to clear the table, moving away quickly on long legs that his poor posture can't wholly belie.

He wants to gulp in air, take a shuddering, long breath, run a hand through his hair, but both Roger and Nick are watching him, eyes rimmed dark with eyeliner and beginning to fall sleepily closed. He's reminded of a girlfriend, once, of her sitting across from him, eyes heavy lidded and lips curved gently in a tired but contented smile - and though the thought is brief and flitting (and that they're just as pretty, if not more so, is undeniable) - Andy's stomach swoops low with guilt, and he knows he's tired, and that his thoughts are getting more difficult to ignore. He realises that this is all going to end badly.

He should leave.

He won't though. He grimaces, then yawns, feeling his full stomach mixing with the already-circulating lethargy. Moisture springs to his eyes as he opens his mouth wide, and he hears that peculiar tinny ring in his ears. The tears make the simple light and colours of the room sparkle and double up briefly until he rapidly blinks them away.

God, he's exhausted. It feels bone-deep an heavy. His limbs are being a little stubborn - not bad enough to cause issue, but enough to irk him a little - and his thoughts are becoming more intrusive, more revealing. Shame churns in the back of his mind: in a dark nook he usually has the wherewithal to avoid. 

Fuck, but they've been so good to him. He's basically agreed to work with them, too, and that means he'll most likely have to stay with them - it's not like he can afford a flat for himself, especially not in a big city like this, and even if he could, it'd be plain rude. He'd have to turn up to perform with them at the Rum Runner and know that while they'd think his absence was a slight on their characters, it's more a matter of terrible weakness on his behalf.

A scraping sound - wooden chair-legs on tiles - snaps his focus back to the present. Roger and Nick have stood up, shoulder to shoulder, pretty much. Roger has his chin tucked down slightly, head turned somewhat to the left, so he ends up managing to look slantwise up at Nick from beneath his brows, a swift glimpse of a smirk in the quirk of his mouth, before he steps quickly away. John continues blithely washing up. 

Andy seriously feels like he's intruding something, here.

"C'mon, Andy, let's find you some stuff to sleep in." It's Nick, again. He seems to be the most outspoken, followed by John, then Roger, but there's no lack of respect between them. He likes that - hopefully, it means songwriting is less likely to be a fight for input. Or if it is, it'll be a fight for every one of them. He can deal with that - competitiveness brings out the best in him, he's found. Stuff to sleep in, though... The perceived charity is beginning to grate, a little. The edge of irritation makes him feel a little more alert.

They leave the kitchen, and John and Roger, as they enter the hallway, it's light ruddy and saturated. Long shadows are cast by it, like thick lines of shading against the walls, the floor. Andy begins to wonder at the other two as they ascend the creaking staircase, at what he and Nick interrupted when they first entered the small room. Nick had seemed nervous. Or maybe they only want him around for his guitar, are just being as outwardly pleasant to him as they can be. Maybe Nick was just worried they might have been talking about him, discussing whether or not to keep him. Maybe they're just stringing him along until they find someone better? After all, it's been less than a day. Nobody can become this attached in this space of time. 

But he has, hasn't he?

They draw to the top of the landing, the light from below threading through the bannisters, shadows crawling up the walls. There's a small window to their left, just large enough for someone Andy's stature to squeeze through, if he's not mistaken, which looks out onto the wall of another house. There's the barest hint of illumination from the streetlamps lining the road. Ahead, there's a door, ajar, and to their right, another. Where do they all sleep? 

His question is answered upon following the other man into the room straight ahead. The room seems the largest in the house, though that's not saying much. There's a single bed pressed close to the far left wall, a tiny bedside table with a lamp, much like the one downstairs, perched on top, and along side that, two single mattresses are squeezed together, the wall closing the one furthest-right in. Andy feels himself grimacing at just how make-do their living arrangements are. Where are their families? They're all Brummies, so far as he can tell from their accents, all natives. Surely if their family members knew about this, they'd try to get them to live elsewhere?

He looks over at Nick, striking in the barest hints of light from outside, through yet another small window. With his manner of dress, Andy finds it difficult to believe the boy could put up with living like this. He must feel him looking; astute eyes flick sideways while he rummages through a drawer, pushing aside various garments in the hunt for something for him to wear. Nick looks ghostly, pale, like he's made of porcelain. Fragile, hiding a deceptive resilience. 

What is he doing here? Andy doesn't think you'd ever find him doing something he didn't want to. 

He accepts the clothes with no argument, biting his tongue against what he wants to say - that he usually just sleeps in his boxers - because thinking of the situation he's in, he's not sure how comfortable he'd be like that. This is someone else's house, entirely. He mumbles thanks, hovering, waiting to know where to go next. The entirety of today, he feels like he's been led by the hand, like a child. And usually he'd find that galling, but he's so tired, and so curious, and so utterly desperate for this to work out (and where did that come from?) that he's not ready to forge his own path.

Nick catches on quick. "The other room, over there," A loose gesture, open handed, past Andy to the other door, "That's the bathroom. Change in there, use the toilet, whatever... We don't have any spare toothbrushes, so use your finger or something." He seems embarrassed by this. Andy feels like laughing - caught out, the boy's finally caught out! But then, this means they hadn't planned at all for him to stay. Which means it's good that he's here, right? "I'll get some blankets and then leave them on the sofa. You'll have to sleep there, I'm afraid."

"Alright." He shuffles into the bathroom, hearing the clomp of Nick's shoes down the stairway."

\---

Andy wakes blearily, attempting to cling to the feeling of sleep, comforting, warm, heavy like down. He's not sure what woke him, though, and the still-unfamiliar setting around him makes him wary of the fact: more so than if he were elsewhere. He stays lay down on the sofa, stock-still, straining to hear whatever it might have been that woke him. He's sure it was a sound. If he hears clicks like the house settling, that's fine, if he hears talking, that's fine. If he hears footsteps... 

He'll check it out. He's none too sure about the security of this building anyway, and it's not in the greatest of areas.

He keeps his eyes open, realises he never shut the curtains to this room, just fell asleep in the pallid cast of the light from outside. He props himself up, stretching his arms as he does so, and slips out from under the thin blankets they were kind enough to give to him. He tilts his head from side to side, feeling the cool breath of the air across his neck. It's still plenty warm enough while ensconced in blankets, but now, newly exposed, there's an edge.

He looks at what he's wearing, properly takes it in. His own boxers, and a tee which is too broad across the shoulders, too long down the torso, neck loose and low, cotton thin and well-worn. It's plain white, and smells clean, of detergent. He shivers, both from the slight chill of the room, and from the realisation it's most-likely John's. He stands from the sofa with a little difficulty, the cushions seeming to want him to sink into them, and scoffs at himself. He must look ridiculous in just a too-big top, and boxers. He shakes his head as he pads barefoot across the room, reaching to draw the curtains closed. He tuts when they resist him, and decides to leave the small crack between them instead of expending too much time adjusting them. Sure, he'll be woken by light through the seemingly insignificant gap tomorrow morning, but right now, he really doesn't care.

He wonders at the hour, and crosses slowly to squint at the small clock on the mantelpiece. It's barely an hour ago that he pretty much fell onto the sofa, and was asleep practically immediately. He groans at the realisation. He's going to be wrecked in the morning. 

A few more stumbling steps bring him back to the focal point of the room, the sofa, but he knows he won't sleep. He's too awake, thoughts already moving at a speed impossible to slow. Maybe if he just lies down and shuts his eyes, he'll get some sort of benefit-

Footsteps.

He hears footsteps, slow, careful, as though trying not to wake the occupants of the house. His mind flickers back to the window on the landing, how it wasn't inconceivable for someone to slips in through it, if they climbed high enough. He knew it, he fucking knew it wasn't secure here.

His heart tattoos a quick march to his ribs, beating hard, and there's that lurch in his stomach like he's missed a step on the stairs. He drags a hand through his hair, and before he knows it, he's at the foot of the stairs, bathed in dark. The lamps's been switched off, no yellow light to help him now, only the faint glow of the city through the treacherous window on the floor above.

He slips up the stairs, silent like a wraith, the bent over and prowling, using the wooden rail of the bannister for cover. His eyes are wide in panic, and apprehension coils in his stomach. And then, as he crests the top of the staircase, he hears a yelp. His blood chills in his veins, heart stuttering then beating harder than he thinks it's ever beaten before.

Fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuck.

Before he knows it, he's striding over to the door, bare feet still light on the rough carpet. He's gonna give whoever's broken in the fright of their life, and god help them if they've hurt one of the others. He braces his right hand against the door, splayed wide, and slams it open, already pulling back to move into a fighting stance, and-

Oh. 

Shit.

Three pairs of eyes bore into him, all from the mattresses pushed together. Roger and Nick are lay back while John is kneeling over the two of them, back a broad-shouldered but slender, pale expanse. They're all in a similar state: clad in nothing but boxers. John's hands are on the other two's chests, and though it's immediately obvious he was doing little more than tickling them - their eyes are sparkling with mirth, bright with emotion, smiling, great big smiles - Andy feels like he's walked in on something far worse for the intimacy he feels he's forcefully invaded. He feels mortified, shame a pitch black wave of cold water poised above him, ready to fall. His cheeks are burning, and he feels - ironically - trapped. 

It's their eyes; they see through him. 

But he's ready to back out of the room, excuses tripping over each other in their rush to reach his tongue first, rendering him mute. Obviously, the three of them are reading the situation, and what he must be thinking. What he must be feeling. Do they know? Do they know how he feels about... men? They probably think he's disgusted, going to run off and tell somebody, anybody, about this, about them.

John's looking at the other two, now, and as if by unspoken agreement, he stands up, turns to face Andy and slowly, consideringly, walks towards him. His head's tilted, and his dark hair falls over his eyes, masking the emotion on his face. Andy can't get a read on him, doesn't know what to expect. The half-light through the window strikes soft shading over his body, graceful, like a sculpture, outlining subtle definition of muscle, and bone.

Andy realises he's backed himself into the wall. His hands are flat to its cold surface. And John just keeps drawing closer, inexorable. He's stood so close, now, that Andy has to tilt his head back, to meet the deep shadows where his eyes are. Andy can't find it in himself to envy that height, anymore. He can't see past John, can't see Roger and Nick. He can hear them talking in hushed tones.

Andy pulls his spine straight and holds his head up, defiant. The corner of John's lips quirk up, just slightly, in amusement at his actions. 

In this moment, when John is at the most vulnerable Andy's yet seen him, how is it that he's the most intimidating he's been to him?

"We saw you looking at us." John says it softly, gently, like Andy's an animal about to bolt, and hesitantly raises a hand to the side of his face, stroking gently across his cheek, thumb brushing up over the swell of his cheekbone, and the dip just below his eye. Andy can't help but lean into it. John smiles at that, small, but with feeling. "We weren't sure..." There's a breathy gasp from behind them, which prompts John to huff a laugh, and Andy can only imagine what Roger and Nick are doing. A dangerous prospect, that.

Andy shifts where he stands, stomach swooping low. His skin feels tight, and anticipation roils in the back of his mind. He can't help but look at John's lips - and fuck, he's pretty. 

And then John steps closer, until they're sharing heat, the barest of gaps between them. He can smell him, smell the clean mint of shampoo, masculine, so good. The hand on his face slides up and around his head, trailing through his hair, nails scratching, prompting a wave of shivers through him. With his other hand, John pulls at the top he's wearing.

"How did you... Did Nick give you this?" Andy nods once, then swallows hard at the low string of expletives which emerge from John's lips. A kiss is pressed against his scalp, and John nuzzles against him, pressing closer, until all Andy can feel is John, all he can smell is John. His eyes flutter closed as John ducks lower, lips brushing over his temple, his cheek, down to his jaw to nibble there. "Is this okay?" It's murmured, breathy against his sensitive skin, and he shudders at the feel of light breath on his cooled flesh.

"Yeah. Fuck." One of John's hands slides down his side, down to his leg, and curls around the back, pulling slightly to prompt Andy to hike up his leg. They both swear at the sudden, exquisite pressure on their groins. And then both his legs are wrapped around John's narrow waist and fuck, it feels so good, why has he never done this before? 

The whole of his back and hips are pressed back to the cool of the wall, contrasting with the heat of John plastered against his front, and he's lifted clean from the floor. John's hands are hot like brands, helping to hold him up, keep him elevated, and so Andy is free to take the lead. He leans forwards to kiss at John's neck, revelling in the low moan he prompts. He traces his teeth along the supple swell of his shoulder, before biting, gently, both of them swearing as John bucks into Andy in response. Andy laves at the reddened spot, grinning when he realises they are being observed, rather intently.

Roger and Nick are lay close on the makeshift double bed, legs tangled, hair dishevelled, lips reddened and eyes dark. For effect, he holds their gazes, dragging his tongue across John's shoulder until he reaches his jaw, then follows the stubborn line of it, guiding John's face towards him with a bold hand, then kisses him deeply, other arm slung over John's back to pull them close as possible. For a while, they stay like that, eyes closed, exploring by feeling alone. He can feel the slight quake and tremble of John's muscles, taxed as they are by holding his weight. He'll have to let him down soon, and Andy would really rather get to the main event.

A mischievous idea springs to the forefront of his mind, and he pulls back, John blinking like he's just woken up - except his already-dark eyes are black as pitch - as Andy pulls of his top in a hasty movement. He enjoys the moment of skin to skin contact, then trails a hand down John's chest, over his stomach, and down to the front of his boxers. One of his legs is dropped as John yelps in a mixture of surprise and pleasure, but Andy was ready for that, gently pushing the hand which is still curled around the back of his other leg away, until he's stood of his own accord, breaths heavy like he's run a mile.

John's chest is heaving similarly, and it's not difficult to see the quick rhythm of his heart beneath his skin. In another moment of boldness, Andy reaches high to draw John's face closer to his again, and they kiss once again, eyes swirled dark with pleasure. He hears steps - padding feet pattering closer - and hot hands trail over his back and drag him over to the bed. He doesn't mind at all, simply sinks to his knees as they do the same. Nick kisses hot and quick, hints of teeth and an edge of danger to his every action. Roger's more considering - he kisses slower and deeper, and simmers throughout. And John's with them, presses lips light to the backs of his hands, up his arms, across his shoulders, like butterfly wings.

They're everything, all at once, gentle and intense. It feels like worship and it feels like he's being claimed. It's nothing like he thought it was, what people made it out to be - a show of force, something depraved, perverse, damaging. It's something amazing. He's never been so aware. He absently feels himself lowered gently to the mattress, caught up in bliss as he is. They trail hands over him, kneeling above, like sentries. Nick brushes Andy's fringe back from where it's strewn across his face, meets his eyes then leans in, their lips meeting. Roger traces the line of his flank with the back of his hand, smiling softly as his obliques twitch, ticklish. 

He's cast in shadow as John stoops over him to kiss Roger, their lashes dark smudges over their high cheekbones, hands lifting to cradle each other's face. They stay like that for a short while, preoccupied, until Nick notices, raises his head and clears his throat at them, not at all subtle. They move apart, slightly sheepish, lips swollen from kisses. Roger moves in, this time, to whisper in John's ear. The resulting wicked smirks would worry Andy, if he weren't already rather preoccupied.

John moves languidly to lie down beside him, plastered to the whole of his side, propping his head up with his hand, eyes boring down into his. A slow, wolfish grin stretches across his lips. Nick's still alternating between kissing and mouthing Andy's neck, the sensitive spot beneath his jaw, so John's next action doesn't compute until he feels callused fingertips slip across his side, his lower stomach, and then beneath the waistband of his boxers, before cruelly pausing, chuckling at the bitten-off expletives from Andy's mouth.

John buries his head in the crook of Andy's neck, breaths fast and damp there, his gentle administrations - nips and licks and simple presses of lips - contrapuntal to Nick's own more fiery attention. Nick moans against his neck, before pulling away, and he turns his head, mind loose, to see Roger lay on Nick, the two grinding against each other. "Fuck!" It's hot. It's so hot he can't stand it, feels like he's burning up. He wants to be in either of their positions - quite literally - to find that wonderful friction and finally get release. 

And then there's a hand around him, grip careful but determined, and Andy can feel the buzz of pleasure fan out through his veins. He pants. This is almost torture. John strokes his length, and Andy groans, screwing his eyes tight shut, until he feels John's lips against his ear, almost doesn't hear words like honey, sweet and slow, uttered lowly into his ear. "You're so fucking pretty." 

Andy wants to shake his head, grits his teeth, prepares to protest, but John gives a twist with his hand and he can't think. God, it feels so good. "You are." He trails his lips up Andy's cheekbone as he rises to kneel, Andy whimpering at the loss of contact. Their eyes remain locked, and then he swings a leg over Andy to straddle his hips, lowers himself back down, until their noses brush, lips graze with open-mouthed gasps. His whole body is covered by John, his larger frame cloaking him from the world, practically entirely. 

John releases a shuddering breath, blinking heavily while looking away, lips apart, looking thoroughly debauched. "God, you're small." Under any other circumstance, Andy would've socked the speaker of those words in the jaw - height jokes, he's heard them all - but John dives forward to kiss him ardently, and suddenly, Andy knows, he knows what that means.

They grind against each other, quick and desperate, pleasure cascading in frissons of heat up Andy's spine from the pit of his stomach. He's almost there, gasping against the sweat-salty skin of John's neck, until from nowhere, a hand snakes between them, catching them both unawares, and they're coming, both moaning against each other. Andy's mind is whited-out; all he knows is bliss and the weight of John against him, as they both tide it out.

Reluctantly, John rolls off him, and Andy shivers a little as cool air floods back in to fill the space above him. He rolls his head to the left, sees Roger lay with Nick half-draped over him, looking picture-perfect even now. And Roger... well, he looks smug, a mischievous smile curling his lips. Roger's dark eyes flicker past him, to look straight at John, he guesses. The smile deepens to a smirk.

"Oh, you bastard!" As soon as the exclamation passes John's lips, Andy realises who the mysterious hand had belonged to. He looks straight up to the ceiling, laughing in disbelief. Ridiculous, this whole scenario is ridiculous. He shakes his head, even as sheets are being pulled up to cover the lower halves of their bodies. His boxers are damp, Andy realises, wrinkling his nose a little, but he's so tired, exhaustion catching up with him once again, that he finds himself not caring too much.

John presses closer, hooking a leg over one of Andy's. He's warm, and his body's heavy limbed, and he's with someone. He finds himself drifting off easily.


End file.
